


The Devil You Know

by goddamnhella



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 23:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9852422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddamnhella/pseuds/goddamnhella
Summary: Charles Xavier thought that waking up powerless and imprisoned by a mutant research facility was the worst thing that could happen to him. Then Azazel turned up. A tale of fast friendship and why choosing the lesser of two evils can have unexpected results.





	

It had been six days since Charles last saw the sky.

Not a maddening stretch of time by any means, really; the human mind would not lose its grip on reality from so meagre a depravation. But he missed it all the same. In the darkness, when the cheap fluorescent lights overhead went out and the prisoners all bedded down for the night, Charles wondered if he would die without ever seeing it again.

Sadly, it was not an over-dramatisation of his situation. Of the eight collared mutants he had woken up to find staring at him from equally dank and windowless cells, two were already dead.

The burly man known to them only as Hatchet had been the first to go; he'd tried to tear off the collar clamped around his neck. They all had one – it continuously emitted a specific type of radiation keyed to suppress the mutant 'X' gene. It rendered them utterly and infuriatingly powerless.

It also contained a nasty surprise for anyone who tampered with it. Hatchet found that out, as did his cell-mate who was later given a mop and bucket to clean up the scattered remains of his friend's head.

The other to die had gone so quietly no one had noticed exactly when it happened. A quiet, fearfully obedient girl of no more than nineteen. To their shared shame no-one had even asked for her name, or what her mutation had been. She'd simply been called up to the front of her cell on the third morning, handcuffed and escorted down the poorly-lit hall. Upon returning six hours later, she wordlessly sat down in the corner of her cell, went to sleep and simply never woke up.

_Experimentation_ , they'd whispered after the helmeted guards tucked her arms inside a body-bag and zipped it shut. They were going to be experimented on, and they obviously didn't care if there were casualties.

It was that quiet death that took the fight from most of the others, set them to staring dully at the dark concrete walls and bitterly cursing their misfortune to have been born different.

It occurred to Charles that Erik would have roused their spirits, told them how impossibly special they were, how the humans who caged them weren't even worthy of walking the same earth they did. But it had been two years since Cuba, and Charles could really only be grateful his old friend hadn't been caught in this mess along with him. Erik had seen enough of cages, tests and men of science. It seemed it was now his turn.

So for his part Charles sat quietly in the corner of his cell most days, eating the sparse meals that were slid beneath the metal bars of his cage and trying furiously to push his thoughts up out into the world beyond their prison.

No one answered. No one would answer, either, until the collar was removed. But as the days passed it seemed less and less likely that would ever happen.

* * *

On day nine, Charles was finally called to the front of his cell.

It was with a dry mouth and a thundering heartbeat that he pushed his hands backwards through the bars, allowing himself to be handcuffed. Stepping away from the sliding barred door, he watched the two faceless guards open it and stepped through wordlessly when they gestured. Obediently, calmly – _someone help me god will I go to sleep and never wake up-_ and quiet, Charles bowed his head and allowed himself to be escorted down the hall.

"Do nothing but what we tell you to do, mutant."

The voice at his left was tense, and wary. As though Charles could be some kind of physical threat. Giving a single nod of assent, he kept his eyes on the stained concrete floor and walked.

Perhaps he looked too calm. Perhaps he was too obedient. But whatever it was that made the guard speak again cleared up one important detail.

The guard sneered at his silence. "See, I don't care if you can shoot lasers out of your ass – you're sure as shit not getting out of here. So whatever you're planning, don't."

They had no idea who he was.

What his mutation was.

His institute was safe.

The sheer relief that knowledge brought him was immense. But how had they known that the unassuming man they'd kidnapped from his hotel had been a mutant? A mutant telepath on a recruitment trip, at that. He had no idea. Again came the stab of loss that he couldn't simply reach into the guard's mind and pluck the information straight out. Couldn't influence him to release him, to release the other mutants and show them the way out. Because of one _damnable_ collar that had to be giving off enough radiation to kill him within a few months, if it could so completely repress his telepathy.

They turned down a corridor, through a rusted metal vault door and then down another corridor. Everything seemed inexplicably dingy and dank. The yellowed fluorescent lights flickered oddly, and there looked to be a leak coming from the ceiling further down, water dripping rhythmically and echoing back to him. This did not appear to be a government facility – he had seen government labs before. They were, if no friendlier, at least well-maintained. A private operation? Perhaps a hidden bunker somewhere? They'd been walking for a while, the place had to be quite vast—

He rounded a corner in time to see what bizarrely looked like a dental surgery room, complete with chair and blinding overhead lights, the stench of rubber and chemicals in his nose—

There was a sharp prick of pain above his collar, and then nothing.

* * *

He opened his eyes, once, and saw the masked face of a surgeon. Eyes that watched him with detached curiosity.

"Pupils are reactive. Pulse stabilising. He's stronger than he looks." The surgeon sounded vaguely surprised.

"We'll see. Put him under again, and back to the cell. We'll try again soon." This voice was colder, and female. Authoritative. He'd have to remember…

The harsh light faded into darkness again.

* * *

Waking up while _in_ the throes of vomiting was sadly something Charles was not unfamiliar with. Stomach cramping viciously, he coughed and gagged as his stomach emptied itself, his cheek pressed against the rough floor of his cell. Sweating and shivering as the tranquilisers worked their way out of his system, he barely heard the noise out in the corridor. All his attention was focussed on trying to pull himself out of the puddle of vomit his face was in and open his eyes. Everythinghurt.

"Jesus fucking Christ, what is this freak?"

"Holy _shit_ , did you see that, he's got—"

"Yeah, I see it _._ "

Dragging himself up onto his knees, Charles turned to the grime-covered basin in the corner and thought about whether he could manage to turn the tap on or not. He couldn't very well remain covered in his own filth like an infant, could he? He still had his dignity. Bloody dignity, he thought painfully, letting out an involuntary groan as he crawled to the basin, using the rim to haul himself up. His entire chest was one bright ache.

"Can't believe the shit we have to go through. Where's he supposed to go?"

"2B. He's in with dead guy."

_Dead guy?_ Charles thought blearily, rinsing his mouth over the basin. His throat clutched warningly, his stomach seemingly offended by the presence of water in his mouth. Lovely. He felt simultaneously hung over and much like he'd been hit with a car. Or a truck. What had they done to him back there?

Splashing his face with water, Charles heard the door to his cell open with a rattling clang and stiffened, turning to face the guards. Again, so soon?

"Steady on, mutant. Try anything and you're…oh." The helmeted guard seemed to get a good look at the state he was in and promptly ran out of words. Charles dimly recognised him as the talkative one who'd warned him off his 'plans'. The second guard swore colourfully behind him.

"Move your ass. This guy ain't gonna drag himself in there. Christ, did someone vomit?" the guard groused, coming into view. He was dragging a body behind him. "I—Jesus fuck! Get the mop, asshole. I'll handle Satan here. Dead guy, you just stay right where you fuckin' are, or your head turns into chunky soup." He tapped at something on his belt with one gloved finger, like it was supposed to mean something to Charles. A surge of reckless irritation surged up in him, much like the nausea had a moment ago.

"Dead guy?" he rasped after a moment, slumping against the freezing wall. "I don't know how to tell you this, but I'm quite alive."

The guard snorted, the sound echoing under his mirrored visor. "Not for long. Here's your roommate, _dead guy._ " With that, he hauled the slack body of a man into his cell, backed out and slammed the door shut with an almighty clang.

Charles barely noticed him go. The unconscious man sprawled on the floor of his cell had him transfixed, the cold punch of recognition and dread hitting him square in the stomach.

Azazel hadn't changed at all in two years. He even wore the same style of tailored suit, if memory served. The only real difference was the metal collar snapped around his neck, gleaming somehow brighter against his crimson skin. His hair was in disarray, black strands drifting across his cheek and partially obscuring his eyes. The sinuous length of his tail was slack against the concrete, the arrowhead tip of it looking as deadly as ever.

How on earth had they managed to capture a teleporting assassin? One of Erik's supposed brotherhood, at that.

_Erik._

Panic lit his nerves and Charles stepped over Azazel, half-tripping on one of his legs. He pushed his face against the bars and strained his eyes, looking up first one side of the cell block, then the other. Had there been others? Had Erik been captured too? All he could see were the same defeated faces he'd always seen, turned away from him. Five, now. There were only five. Six, with Azazel. Erik wasn't there. No one new had been brought in. Somehow despite everything, the smallest pinch of disappointment made itself known. Which was just lunacy. He wouldn't wish this fate on anyone. Not even his devilish new companion, who once he woke up might just decide to kill him on sight.

Panting slightly, Charles was starting to calm down when the first guard returned, carrying a mop and bucket. They all wore the same manner of uniform; in a way it reminded him of a cross between riot gear and motorcycle leathers. Heavy-duty black material, gloves, steel-capped boots, and a helmet that protected their faces with a full mirrored amber visor. There was no skin on display at all. Protection from the radiation? With so many collars pulsing it out all the time, perhaps. There was certainly no other danger in sight.

"Think I'll just leave this here," the guard said thoughtfully, sliding back the door and pushing the bucket inside with his foot. "Red guy here might need it to clean you up later. Gave us some kind of hell before we dragged him in, hoo boy."

_Red guy and dead guy,_ Charles thought dryly. Wonderful. The door slid shut again, but this time the guard didn't leave immediately.

"You're real quiet, you know that?" he said after a moment, sounding almost curious. "The others here, they screamed and swore and all kinds of business. But you? You just looked confused." He shook his head slightly. "You _do_ talk, right?"

The guard was initiating a conversation with him. Interesting. Between him and the rougher one who swore a lot, he seemed somewhat friendlier. Definitely more nervous around mutants. New to the job?

"I'm afraid I don't," Charles answered, shaking his head. The guard stiffened, then let out a small bark of laughter.

"Right. Seeya at dinnertime, English. If you're still kicking." And off down the corridor he went again, whistling to himself.

Turning around painfully, Charles looked from the mop to the mess he'd created, to the loose-limbed killer spread-eagled on the floor.

Really now, they could have put him on the cot at least, Charles thought unfavourably. He had no way of getting the larger man on the bed, instead hooking his hands under Azazel's arms and laboriously dragging him to the foot of the bed, propping him up against the wall. He was somehow even heavier than he looked. His tail was flicking slightly now, which Charles took to be a good sign he would wake up soon. Wiping sweat from his brow, he turned and staggered back to the mop and bucket, resolving to start cleaning before the pain in his chest incapacitated him. Everything swam vaguely on the edges of his vision, which couldn't be good.

As he began mopping, stopping occasionally to lean on the support it offered, Charles tried to remember what had happened to him while he'd been out of his cell. How many turns it had been, how many doors they'd taken him through. The room that looked like a dentist's suite, the walls lined with countertops full of instruments. A metal sink. The chair. The overhead lights, brighter than the ones in the hall. The cold scent of a sterile environment, saturated with chemicals.

Then later, that brief, foggy moment where he'd definitely been on an operating table, or something like one. It had been a different room. Two people, a male surgeon and a woman he couldn't see. Something about his pulse—

_He's in with dead guy._

Charles' vision wobbled alarmingly. Perhaps he'd been resuscitated on the table – but surely they'd have learned to be more careful after they killed that poor nameless girl. Or not. Bloody mad scientists, experimenting on people like they were disposable, like they were easily replaced. Did they have such unlimited access to more mutants that they could afford to bethis careless? One was always unthinkingly wasteful when resources were plentiful. It was…simple human nature, after a fashion. They knew they could always get more. It made him wonder for the hundredth time just _how_ they were locating and capturing mutants. Perhaps they had another telepath, another Cerebro. But no, because they took mutants without even knowing their powers, their names. A telepath would know that.

There were too many questions, and not an answer in sight.

Finally finished, Charles wearily pushed the bucket to the door, leaning the mop on the wall. It took almost all the strength he had left to stumble back to the cot and collapse into it, burying his face in the thin pillow as the room began spinning. Perhaps, if he just slept a while…he could find some answers when he woke up.

* * *

Charles awoke to shrill screams. The woman in the opposite cell was screaming something.

"No! Nonono, don't do it! It _explodes_! Don't pull at it!"

Snorting himself fully awake, Charles pulled his face out of the pillow and looked up. Someone was pulling their— _Azazel!_

The tall man was standing in the centre of the cell, eyes wild and teeth bared in a snarl. His hands were clutching at the collar but he'd stilled at the woman's screams, frozen with indecision. His tail whipped furiously, the arrowed tip raised threateningly, scorpion-like. Then he seemed to notice Charles, and his eyes blazed with recognition. Whirling on him, Azazel took a single threatening step forward—

—then wobbled alarmingly and collapsed to his knees. His tail flopped sadly to the floor.

Ah. Still drugged, then. Azazel put a hand to his head and blinked hard, seemingly trying to focus his vision. In fact, he looked like he'd forgotten what he was doing altogether.

Slowly, carefully, Charles swung his legs over the side of the cot and studied the semi-conscious mutant. It wouldn't do to alarm him; even without his mutation Azazel made a living out of killing people for fun and profit. He'd tasted that much of the man's mind before. There had also been a tightly controlled feral instinct. With tranquilisers in his system and waking up in what was essentially a cage, that animal response had slid into control. He had to tread carefully.

"Azazel? Can you hear me?"

At the sound of his voice Azazel's tail lashed, darting forward like a striking cobra. But it was slow, and with a bitten-off curse Charles managed to grab it with both hands. It was warm and lithe, truly serpentine in structure. Muscle and bone. Fascinating. Then it twitched toward his face again, making him start.

"Don't stab me, for God's sake," he said, affronted. "We're both in the same situation here. I need to know if you were the only one taken. Was Raven with you? Was Erik? Azazel, are you listening?"

Blinking hard, Azazel lifted his head and stared across at him with slightly glazed eyes. "I was alone," he replied hazily. His accent was heavier in his half-dazed state. "No one else."

"Small mercies," Charles murmured, mostly to himself. His hands slackened, and he felt the tail in his loose grip slide away. So Azazel had been another random choice. Probably off teleporting around the globe. He supposed he could ask, but what did it matter? When all was said and done, they were still trapped in a cell together, and no foreseeable way out. Even if the teleporter chose to simply kill him it would likely only be speeding up the inevitable.

His chest throbbed painfully at the reminder. Unbuttoning his ruined dress shirt, finally got a look at just what hurt so much. And stared.

"Bloody hell," he breathed, appalled.

Under the cut-away strips of his undershirt, twin rectangular burns scored his skin, angry red and marking what had to be the shoddy work of a defibrillator. Surrounding that were a mass of purple-black bruises and what definitely felt like the beginning of some bruised ribs. Charles felt sick at the sight of himself. His heart _had_ stopped while he'd been on that table. A cold hand of fear gripped him as he realised he could have simply never woken up at all. The end of Charles Xavier, dead on some operating table because someone wanted to find out what made mutants tick. It could have been…all over, and he hadn't even known it at the time.

Azazel sat up on his knees and studied the injuries as well, appearing slightly more lucid now as he leaned forward. His slanted brows were knitted in thought.

"Not torture," he stated. His matter-of-fact tone bothered Charles and he moved to button up his shirt again, but a long-fingered crimson hand knocked between his, stopping him.

" _If_ you don't mind," he said stiffly. Azazel just waved him off, actually insinuating himself between Charles' thighs as he got close enough to study the marks. Desperately uncomfortable with the sudden invasion of his personal space, Charles held his breath while Azazel continued his exploration.

Two fingertips hovered over his skin, over the burns and across to a needle mark he hadn't noticed just over his heart. Then they trailed across to the bruising and stilled.

"You died at least once, Charles Xavier," Azazel said finally, sounding almost pleased. His mouth kicked up at the corner. "Congratulations."

"You're insane," Charles replied flatly, jerkily buttoning up his shirt as the teleporter finally shifted away, moving to sit against the opposite wall. Drawing one knee up Azazel just grinned, a flash of white teeth there and gone in the blink of an eye. He seemed to have taken that as a compliment.

"Tell me of this collar I'm wearing."

Charles debated keeping silent for a brief, unkind moment, and then sighed. What good would that really do?

"There…isn't a great deal to tell," he admitted, lightly touching the skin-warm metal around his neck. "We all woke up here wearing one. It seems to emit a radiation keyed to the 'X' gene – the one that is present in all mutants and is responsible for the manifestation of our powers. It suppresses all our abilities, and if we try to take it off, it explodes."

Azazel frowned, then swore softly. "Then the collar can stay on. We find another way to escape."

"We?"

"You want to stay?"

Charles blanched. "God, no."

Azazel smiled. "Then we escape. Magneto would not be pleased if he found out I left you here to die."

_Magneto._ Now there was a raw nerve. Charles suspected it would remain one for a long time to come.

"I rather doubt Erik cares much one way or the other, these days."

"No?" The faintly indulging tone frayed Charles' temper. He clenched his jaw.

"Consider that the last time I saw him he tried to beat me senseless, accidentally shot me in the back, then abandoned me to bleed to death on a beach surrounded by battleships _and_ took my oldest friend with him. I have neither seen nor heard from him since. So tell me; in all of that where do you get the impression he gives even the _slightest_ damn about where I am?"

A ringing silence followed his brief rant and from it Charles had the immediate feeling the other inmates had been listening as well. For his part, Charles wasn't certain where the anger had burst from. Hadn't be been fine with it all this time? Hadn't he understood the choice Erik had made? All right then, perhaps there _was_ a small sense of betrayal festering under the surface of his calm acceptance. Well. He had never pretended to be a saint. He felt the tips of his ears flush red with embarrassment.

Azazel had the utter gall to smile at him again. "You interest me, Xavier."

"I'm flattered."

A wicked light shone briefly in the assassin's eyes. Then they simply closed, and he tipped his head back against the wall. The conversation was apparently over. Well that was fine by him.

Stretching out on the cot again, Charles rolled over to face the wall and closed his eyes. Somehow, the whole conversation had made the knot of scar tissue on his back ache anew.

* * *

In the days that followed, their numbers dwindled once more. On the third morning after the assassin had been caught, Charles woke up and found that the cell across from his had become empty overnight. As the day passed and no one returned the woman to her cell (Harriett Brooks, he remembered, she had brown hair and freckles and telescopic eyesight), it was with a heavy heart and no small amount of fear that he accepted that Ms Brooks had likely met the same fate as the nameless girl.

Azazel had noticed too, though he said nothing on the matter. In fact he'd said almost nothing since their first conversation, and Charles wasn't sure if it was a relief or not that the assassin kept his own counsel. He also kept to what seemed to have become his side of the cell. Seated close to the bars with his back against the cement wall and forever watching the corridor, Azazel seemed strangely at peace with his surroundings. It was odd, considering that he'd so quickly broached the topic of escaping. Maybe, having had time to think about it, he had decided there was no possible way to break out of there. Maybe he too, like the others, had given up.

Or he was patiently waiting for help to arrive.

Were Erik to happen upon the facility, Charles knew that he would slaughter every human he found inside. But of all the things he wished for, the death of his captors wasn't one of them. In truth revenge was actually quite low on his list of priorities. What Charles desperately wanted was to get the remaining mutants out of there, to get to freedom and safety and sunlight and _warmth_. He was sick of being cold; after nearly three weeks the dank chill of the cement dungeon they were trapped in had well and truly seeped into his bones.

He also wanted a bath. It was with that in mind that when dinner was pushed under the bars, he asked the young guard about it.

"What, you don't like stewing in your own juices, English?" he said with a snort, crossing his arms over his chest. "Suppose you'll want a hot cup of tea and some biscuits next, too. This ain't a damn hotel." Despite his hard words, there was a faint note of humour in their delivery that gave Charles the courage to push on with his argument.

"Ask your dear friends with the scalpels what they think about the combination of surgical procedures and poor hygiene," he said evenly. "At the rate they have us dropping, they don't need to lose any more of us to something like infection."

Against the wall, Azazel shifted. Charles ignored the pale blue gaze that fell on him, narrow and intense though it was. The guard shifted his weight slightly and paused, uncrossing his arms.

"You talk sense, dead guy, but I haven't got any pull in this shithole," he said finally, sounding irritated. "I'll pass it up the chain. Don't expect more'n a rag on a stick though, even if you do get your way."

Charles almost smiled. "I'm grateful," he said, and watched the guard pull his helmeted head back in surprise.

"Uh-huh. Anything else on your Christmas list?"

"The key to the cell would be lovely."

The guard laughed. "Would if I could, dead guy." His attention switched to Azazel then, who had his eyes closed once more. "Guess he must like you too, since you're still kicking. Figured you for minced mutant once he woke up."

Charles schooled his expression carefully. "He has been quite calm. I hardly see what all the fuss was about."

Azazel's mouth curved up on one side, but he didn't move otherwise. The guard muttered an oath and hastily stepped away from the bars.

"The fuss?" he repeated disbelievingly. "The friggin' fuss had something to do with him stabbing two of our guys through the chest. With his tail. At the _same_ _time_. It took three darts to put him down hard enough to pack him in the truck."

Charles felt slightly ill as he remembered the CIA compound, littered with the bodies of agents who had the misfortune to be found by Azazel. But the knowledge that he had attacked and killed some of the people who were doing this to them simply brought him a distant sense of satisfaction. He turned his eyes to the mutant in question when he replied, studying his closed eyes.

"You had to know that while you hunted the helpless, you might chance upon a true predator."

Azazel didn't react. Charles actually suspected he'd gone off to sleep. But the guard seemed entirely unsettled, and a little angry for it.

"Mistake of nature, more like," he said unkindly. He turned away. "Lights out at ten, English." Footsteps slowly echoed away, and then they were alone again.

Worried he'd completely ruined his chance for a wash, Charles frowned at the other man as he collected his dinner from the floor. It was the same stew they'd been getting the entire time; a watery mess of vegetables and some kind of meat Charles didn't want to look at too closely. It was truly dreadful, and just looking at it made him sigh with longing for the large kitchen in his mansion. Erik would have laughed in his face.

"Do you count yourself among the helpless, Xavier?"

Blinking, Charles looked over at Azazel. His eyes were still closed, but there was no mockery in his tone, nor a smirk on his face. He thought about the question.

"I didn't sense the intentions in the minds around me," he admitted. "I suppose I was preoccupied. They took me with sickening ease. What would you count me as?"

His eyes opened slowly, regarding Charles with a kind of gravitas he was unused to being the focus of. Pale blue eyes dragged down the length of him, slowly, seemingly absorbing everything about him. Calculating, processing every nuance that made him Charles Xavier. The telepath felt a sudden hunger for his mind, to be able to see the flashes of his thoughts gleaming like mercury in dark water. But of course he couldn't. Not anymore.

"Trusting," Azazel said finally, the word thick in his throat. "I would count you as trusting, _tovarisch._ Not helpless."

Charles shook his head. "I was arrogant, and all the more foolish for it. I talked about humans being equals, of them being no real threat to mutants. And here I sit, corrected."

"You pity yourself." There was no question in his tone.

"You know, I liked you better when you didn't talk," Charles said without heat. In fact, the edge of his mouth was curling up to match the wicked smirk directed at him. Astounding.

"Everybody does. I have a disagreeable nature, they say."

"Never," Charles replied dismissively. "I personally find your penchant for laughing at my misery to be utterly charming. I especially enjoyed the time you tried to stab me in the face."

"A half-hearted effort." Azazel waved it off, his smile widening. "I plead innocence. I was drugged."

Charles choked down a laugh. "Innocence! Then I am to understand that while you're completely sober and alert you feel no desire to stab me?"

" _Da_ ," he said with a nod, his mouth twitching. "You are completely safe, Professor."

Against his better judgement, Charles found himself almost charmed by the good humour and amusement rolling off the teleporter. While it was perfectly clear to him that Azazel could kill in cold-blood, the knowledge could hardly be reconciled with the mutant sitting before him. He hadn't become hardened by it at all, as Erik had. Perhaps because he did it out of no personal vendetta, but simply because he was paid to do it. Or ordered to at the behest of another. And all the while his personality was preserved under it, wicked and rife with mockery and delight. It unnerved Charles, but it also gave him a sharp pang of loss that he couldn't immerse himself in that contradictive, mercurial mind, just to really see it for himself. He felt _blind_ without his telepathy. Blind and isolated.

"Come here for a moment," Charles heard himself saying, and gestured beside him to the unused space on the cot. "I want to try something, if you'll let me."

Azazel's gaze was very direct, and very blue against his crimson skin. "You want to try to read me."

Charles nodded. "With direct skin contact, I might be able to get something off you. And if I can read you, then I might be able to read our friendly guard. But only if you're willing, of course." He wasn't some kind of mind-raping predator – not that he exactly had it in him to incapacitate Azazel long enough to try.

But it seemed that the teleporter held no strong reservations against the idea, as he arranged his long legs under him and stood up with a sigh, tail lashing lazily against his leg. In two strides he was at Charles' side, sitting himself down on the edge of the cot. His expression could only be described as doleful.

"Touching and telepathy, and you have not even bought me dinner."

"It's on the floor," Charles replied, quirking an eyebrow, "and if this works and by some chance we get out of here, I will buy you dinner every night for the next year."

Some of the humour drained from Azazel's eyes, but the gleam in them remained. "Be careful what you promise, _tovarisch._ It may cost you."

Unsure of how to reply to that, Charles opted to stay silent, instead taking the other man by the shoulders and turning him slightly so they faced each other. Then he reached up and pressed two fingers to Azazel's temples, the contact firm and gentle.

"Now, close your eyes and try to focus on a single memory," Charles said, his voice hushed. "It can be anything you like, as long as you can hold it in your mind easily. I'll attempt to find out what it is."

Azazel nodded once under his fingers, his eyes drilling into Charles' with a modicum of wariness. No one ever really trusted a telepath, not even one with a radiation collar around their neck. The skin beneath Charles' fingers was cool and smooth, his thumbs falling to lightly rest on Azazel's cheeks, and he focussed on that grounding pressure as he closed his eyes and searched hard for the mind so close to his own.

There was nothing. It was like trying to shout with no voice, to see without eyes. The jarring sense of—of _amputation_ was so sharp that a sense of true grief sprang up in Charles, and he shuddered under the wrenching ache of it. Without realising it, he pressed forward physically, his body trying to make up for the distance inside his mind. He felt cool fingers wrap around his wrists and he let out a shaky breath, brow creasing as he continued to press forward with his mind.

Nothing. _Nothing_.

But he was _right there_...only, he wasn't.

Charles opened his eyes. Azazel's face was an indistinct red smear across from him, and it took Charles a moment to understand his eyes were brimming with moisture.

"Damn it," he said bleakly, pulling away and wiping his eyes as discretely as he could. "I am sorry, my friend. I am indeed as powerless as they say." Leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees, Charles glared at the wall and furiously wondered if he should just do himself the favour of ripping the collar off then and there. Why delay the inevitable? What possible use was a broken telepath? Should he hold onto hope, condemned to spend the rest of his days in a freezing cell, or under the scalpel of a clumsy surgeon, counting down the hours until he died of some kind of drug overdose, or infection, or—

"Try again, Xavier."

Charles didn't spare him a glance. "It's no use. I am no use."

Azazel shifted, and when he spoke his voice was flat.

"Then Magneto was right about you. Too soft. Too weak."

Charles went still.

His mind, previously a storm of frustration and despair, was whited out with incredulity. Erik had said that? After everything they had been through, Erik dared to call him weak? Charles had held the mind of _Sebastian Shaw_ in his thrall, held onto him and became party to a cold-blooded execution that he'd felt more deeply and personally than he could ever put into words. He'd _seen_ that coin coming toward his face, he'd felt it drill through his skull and had experienced the scream of chaotic brain functions as they abruptly suicided and lost control of all the body's organs, synapses dying off one by one.

Then it had been over, and Shaw had been dead, leaving Charles heaving dry sobs against the window of the blackbird, panicked and certain he had died with him. Wondering why he hadn't.

But despite all that, because he reached for understanding before hatred, returned logic and forgiveness for bigotry and fear, he was weak.

Charles smiled wanly. "Well if Erik says it, it must be true."

Azazel glared at him. "You are pitying yourself. Again."

Charles threw him a filthy look right back. "I believe I am entitled. Kindly bugger off."

Azazel's tail shot out of nowhere, the flat of the arrowed tip bouncing off Charles' forehead with a dull ' _smack'_.

Reeling back with an oath, Charles put his palm to his forehead and stared in disbelief at the teleporter. " _Ow_! What was that for?"

"This is the fearsome Charles Xavier who has Magneto too scared to take off his helmet?" Azazel scowled ferociously. "They pass your name around like legend; they say that you can reach around the world and know your enemy's plans inside out. But you are just…plain. _Frost_ could do better."

Charles was still reeling slightly. "Emma Frost is a very capable telepath," he said numbly. "Unaware of her potential, perhaps, but very capable."

Azazel hit him with his tail again, this time across the mouth. The point nicked his lip and he tasted blood. The other man's expression flickered slightly at the sight, and Charles wondered if that had been an accident. He also wondered if he was trying to provoke a violent reaction out of him. Charles really wasn't the type to get physical; he had neither the build nor the proclivity for it. Still…

"Hit me again and I'll tie a knot in that tail of yours," he said crossly, prodding at his bleeding lip. "You've made your point – no pun intended. What do you mean Erik is too scared to take off the helmet?"

Azazel just shrugged, seemingly disinclined to respond to that. What he did say was, "Will you try again, Xavier?"

Despite knowing he was hardly being given a choice, that if he refused Azazel would probably slap him with his tail again, Charles felt an odd tug of fondness. Of all the people to have some kind of faith in his abilities, this fearsome killer would have been the last on his list. He must have sunk quite low if _Azazel_ was trying to bolster his spirits.

"All right," he said finally. "I'll try. But if we're to have any kind of success, I suppose we'd best use forehead-to-forehead contact. It's the only other thing I can think of. Are you all right with that?"

The wicked, rather toothy smile he got back seemed to be permission enough, and with a vague air of suspicion Charles reached out and pulled the teleporter's face close to his own. He hesitated just before their skin touched, shooting Azazel a warning look.

"Don't get your hopes up, now. But just in case it works, do make sure the memory you choose isn't of someone being horribly killed, would you?" Aside from the obvious distaste associated with witnessing murder, they only got two meals a day and Charles wanted to make sure that his stayed where they belonged.

Azazel didn't bother to reply to that, instead shifting closer on the cot and allowing Charles to guide their foreheads together. Holding his breath in anticipation, hoping against hope, Charles closed his eyes and sent his mind out into the silent blackness once again, seeking anything warm and alive and bright with thought.

And there he was. A single point of living consciousness, pulsing with life and thought and emotion, surrounded by the empty stretching wasteland of Charles' awareness. Another mind, _Azazel's_ mind, just waiting for him to immerse himself in it, to wrap the history of a lifetime around himself, breathing memories and the richness of years like they were oxygen itself.

A small, amazed huff of laughter escaped Charles, his fingers instinctively sliding over cool skin and carding through the warmth of Azazel's hair, assuring himself that yes, this mind belonged to the man in front of him.

"I've got you," Charles whispered fiercely, trying to contain his painful joy. "I've found you, you irritating, amazing homicidal maniac. Now let me see if I can enter your mind…"

Two seconds later, his eyes sprang open in horror.

"That has got to be _the worst_ memory I have ever—was that a _bite_ mark on Shaw's buttock?" he asked, aghast. Charles felt an immediate need to scrape his tongue or cry in a shower somewhere. Honestly, Azazel could have warned him—but that was exactly his plan, wasn't it? To mentally scar Charles for life.

"You're a truly despicable person, Azazel. You should be very ashamed of yourself."

"It keeps me up at night," Azazel replied cheerfully, clapping a long-fingered hand to either side of Charles' face. "Now quickly, see if you can compel me to do something I would not want to do."

"With pleasure," Charles started to say, when the sound of heavy footsteps approaching made him tense. Exchanging one grim glance with the teleporter, he immediately sprawled back on the cot as Azazel darted back to his usual spot by the opposite wall.

Had they heard them talking? Did they suspect? No one ever came this late, it was _too late_ for them to have any reason to approach the cells. A writhe of barely-repressed panic in Charles' stomach kept him staring wide-eyed at the ceiling as the two guards approached their cell. He didn't dare move, and he certainly didn't dare look at Azazel.

He didn't see the guard raise his gun and shoot Azazel three times in the chest. Not until it was over, and his companion stared down at his own chest in shock, already going limp.

"No!" _Darts, they're darts_ , Charles thought frantically, jack-knifing upright and swinging his legs over the edge of the cot. He wasn't sure why he thought he could help; all it earned him was a shot in the thigh that propelled him back against the wall, his vision swimming into queasy darkness already.

"Good for you, English," one of the guards said. "Fastest I've seen you move so far."

The barred door slid open. Before the drugs fully claimed him and his eyes slid shut, Charles watched in mute horror as Azazel's body was dragged out of the cell, three darts protruding from his chest and taking all of Charles' hope of escape with him.

The echoing clang of the door closing sounded like a death knell.

Then Charles Xavier knew no more.

* * *

By Charles’ guess, more than three hours had passed while he’d been unconscious. Three hours and Azazel still had yet to return. It left a cold sense of dread lingering where hope had just started to kindle. How quickly it could be extinguished when one had so little to go on, he thought grimly.

Not that Azazel was crucial to any plan he might come up with; there were ways of luring the guard into his cell, getting him close enough to force his telepathic control over him. But somehow the idea of trying to go about it alone, while entirely possible, just didn’t feel right. He couldn’t leave Azazel at the mercy of their captors, nor could he leave the remaining other prisoners.

If Azazel died on that operating table, the victim of too many experiments or too many drugs or any number of things, Charles wondered if he might become angry enough to do something Erik would approve of. The thought certainly didn’t carry the same pinched sense of pity and distaste it might have in the past.

He would wait until morning, he decided eventually, staring at the empty darkened corner by the door. To give himself time to think and to rest, and also to see if his unlikely companion would return.

Then, if morning came and he remained alone in his cell, it would be time for Charles Xavier to stop bloody faffing about and actually do something about his circumstances.

* * *

“Good news, English, you’re getting your damn shower. Wake the hell up.”

Charles woke with a start, blinking blearily at the stained cement ceiling. For a moment he thought he’d heard the tail echo of some strange dream, and it gave him pause as he sat up, squinting over at the unhappy guard standing on the other side of the bars. There was something off about his stance; he seemed to favour one leg.

“Good morning, guard,” Charles said automatically. Then he hesitated. “Are you injured?”

The guard grunted, shaking his helmeted head. “Nothing for you to worry about. Now c’mon; we’re rounding you all up to be taken to the old shower block. Probably nothing but cold water, but I guess someone saw sense in your idea.”

Charles sighed and got to his feet. “So there’s no soap?”

“Figured you’d bitch about that,” he muttered, but reached into his top pocket and pulled out a small white square. “I palmed this from the scrub sink in the theatre. Don’t say I don’t do nothing for you.”

Once the door had been opened Charles reached out and took the packet of surgical soap from him. It smelled like antiseptic which made his stomach drop with remembered alarm, but it was thoughtful of the guard all the same.

“I do appreciate this. Would you like to handcuff me now?” Thoughtfulness earned its own reward, Charles thought dryly. Besides, the nicer he was to the guard the less he was likely to see a surprise attack coming.

“Nah,” the guard replied dismissively. “We’ve got permission to drop you with the batons if you play up. No offence, English, but you don’t seem the type.”

“No offence taken,” he said easily. “Would you believe I’m actually quite adept at non-violent resolution?”

“I guess no one’s perfect. C’mon.”

He was led down the hall along with two other prisoners, both men. None of them seemed overly inclined to start any trouble, but Charles did notice one was casting covert looks at every doorway and turn they took. Memorising their route? Perhaps. He didn’t know much of those two; their cell had been further down the corridor, and they’d never had a chance to speak. It might be worth trying to get a word out of them in the shower block, he thought.

The aforementioned shower block was every bit as dank and miserable as the guard had made it sound. It was windowless like the rest of the place was, with stained fluorescent lights filled with dead insects and the dark stench of stagnant water hanging over everything. But there were six showerheads spaced at regular intervals, though one hung on a dubious angle. Low modesty walls served to create a cubicle effect, though Charles wondered why anyone would even bother when there were no doors and the walls only reached chest-height. To one side he spotted a low bench stacked with some kind of black clothing, and a pile of what looked like over-starched rags.

“Take a towel and one of the uniforms, then hit the showers. Toss your old clothes in that corner over there,” the older guard barked. “If anyone tries any shit you’d better believe I am fully prepared to bust your head open and see what’s inside. Now get moving.”

Charles hopped-to, snagging what appeared to be a jumpsuit and what had been rather poorly described as a towel and headed for the end shower cubicle with some trepidation. But a cold shower was better than no shower, he supposed, bolstering his courage. Hanging the towel and clothes over the low wall, Charles undressed quickly and turned the faucets on, stepping back from the initial spray in case the water was foul from disuse. The showerhead spluttered and rattled ominously for a few seconds, but age hadn’t damaged it too badly; soon a steady stream of clean water was pouring forth.

More than that, Charles realised with wide eyes, there was steam. A sweep of his hand confirmed that the water was actually warm. Spinning the faucets accordingly, he soon had a torrent of almost scalding hot water gushing forth. After more than three weeks surviving with a basin of cold water and a scrap of his own undershirt to wash with, Charles decided he was truly in heaven and spent the next ten minutes soaping and scrubbing himself from head to toe. Surely Azazel’s plight could wait until he was _clean._

It was as he was carefully washing the healing burns on his chest that the swinging doors of the shower block opened, and two more guards entered with a familiar crimson man in tow. Azazel staggered in after them, his jaw clenched and eyes burning with dull anger. He seemed mostly drugged again, if the limp drag of his tail along the floor was to be any indication. But he was whole and alive, and seemed reasonably alert even if his motor functions had seen better days. Charles tried manfully to mask his relief, but only partially succeeded before Azazel spotted him –all of him– and wandered over to the cubicle beside him.

Charles politely waited until the teleporter had managed to disrobe and begin showering in earnest before turning to him to speak, a hundred questions burning on the tip of his tongue. What they’d done, where he’d gone, what had _taken all bloody night,_ but his mind didn’t seem to want to cooperate with him just yet.

“I thought you were dead,” he said starkly, watching his own numb fingers pass the soap to him over the cubicle wall. The fingers that took it from him were clumsy with medication, and unsurprisingly the soap slipped free and hit the ground. In solemn silence they looked down at it, knowing their surroundings and circumstances. To his credit Charles managed to keep a straight face.

“You appear to have dropped the—”

“I see it, I see it,” Azazel said sharply, his mouth tightening. “You have to get it.”

Charles blinked. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating here, but I don’t like it.”

Muttering a low curse, Azazel pulled Charles forward by the shoulder until he was pressed against the wall, turned and pointed to the base of his tail. Other than a jarring view of the other man’s rear, Charles saw an angry line of stitches marching across the base of his spine, right where it merged into his tail. But of course they’d cut him open to study his tail, Charles thought furiously. They’d probably delighted in spending the entire night poking and prodding at such a prize specimen.

“Where else?” Charles asked after unceremoniously bending down to pick up aforementioned soap. Azazel reached for it once more with more care this time, darting a pale blue glance at him through sodden strands of hair. He shrugged stiffly.

“Injections, mostly. Some electricity was used. I think that they put me in very cold water for a time, but it is difficult to remember.” He pushed soapy hands through his hair and ducked under the spray. “I think that they were testing my endurance. They called me a very good candidate.”

“How nice,” Charles said quietly, his mind racing. A candidate for what? Unfortunately they were in too public an area to speak openly, especially with the guards watching on like they were. Instead he had to wait until they had dried off and dressed in their new lab rat gear, which really was a black industrial coverall that closed in front with snap buttons. It was too big on him and after rolling up the sleeves and the pant legs, Charles decided he looked very much like a child playing dress-up as some manner of factory worker. Azazel, on the other hand, simply tore a small hole for his tail, stepped into it and immediately went about looking cutting-edge and dangerous.

“You look like a serial killer,” Charles told him, feeling petty. Azazel frowned back.

“You look like a small child in pyjamas.”

It was close enough to Charles’ own assessment of himself that he felt his cheeks heating despite the smile he was trying to hold down. But his expression was then wiped clean with surprise as Azazel reached out and unsnapped the top button he’d fastidiously done up, parting the collar to bare the hollow of his throat. He gave Charles an oddly appraising look.

“Better.”

With that gruff assessment Azazel joined the other two men who were ready to file out with the guards, both of them scrubbed pink and looking somewhat brighter than they had before. He supposed a decent shower _would_ be good for morale. The knowledge that he was no different made him oddly sad, and if possible even more resolute to get out, and soon. Captivity did not suit him at all.

It wasn’t long before they were back in their cells, with Azazel having been oddly silent and obedient the entire way back in. Charles wanted to assume the drugs were still in his system, but the assassin had seemed perfectly lucid and coordinated by the time they’d left the shower block. When he stiffly sat down on the edge of the cot and wearily put his head in his hands, alarm bells rung. Charles approached him carefully, worry creasing his brow. It didn’t take telepathy to know that Azazel hadn’t been entirely honest with him about the extent of his injuries.

“Azazel, what is it?” Kneeling down in front of him, Charles had to rein in the urge to put a hand on his shoulder. He had no idea if it would be welcomed or not, and he sensed that assuming things in this situation would be unwise.

The crimson man lifted his head slightly, his pale eyes tiredly amused.

“I am not going to die on you, Xavier.” Charles blinked.

“No, I suppose you’re not the dying type,” he murmured, before adding, “but you do look quite exhausted. You should sleep a while – in the bed this time I think. I’ll take your spot by the door.”

But Azazel was already shaking his head, dark strands falling heavily into his eyes. In its uncombed state, Azazel’s hair seemed wont to fall across his face in damp skeins. Charles’ fingers itched.

“No. You’re no guard. You stay here.”

_Guard?_ “That’s preposterous,” Charles said crossly. “You’re injured and if you think I can’t sit on some concrete for a few hours then you are sorely underestimating me. I don’t care what Erik told you, I’m not some pampered fool who—” His argument was broken off neatly as Azazel bodily hauled him up onto the thin cot, gracelessly shoved him up one end, and planted his own head firmly in Charles’ lap. Hands frozen in mid-air, Charles stared down at his thighs, speechless.

Azazel glared up at him. “You stay _here,_ ” he repeated murderously. “They want you in there again. They will not get you while I sleep.”

With that Azazel rolled onto his side, faced out toward the opposite wall and ignored Charles completely. He might as well have been a convenient pillow, if not a very comfortable one. Charles sighed as he understood that Azazel meant to guard _him,_ and wondered if his attitude was truly only a result of Erik’s regard. It would be much harder to escape without him, he supposed, but the words rang hollow even in his own mind. Azazel was very capable, and seemed to possess the natural endurance of a cockroach. Perhaps he wasn’t supposed to understand Azazel’s motives. He certainly wasn’t about to try and read his mind again, not after the delightful surprise left for him last time.

He supposed there was nothing for it, then. Reaching under himself, Charles pulled out the thin pillow he’d been dropped onto and lifted Azazel’s head, sliding it across his thighs. The other man grunted in displeasure, but Charles would have none of it.

“Your hair is making me damp. Now go to sleep, and please rest assured that I will rip out a great chunk of your hair if the guards return.”

His reply was something muttered in Russian that Charles couldn’t decipher, but assumed it was likely some kind of threat. Silence followed after it, broken only by the sound of their breathing. Charles soon found he had no idea where to put his hands now that his lap was occupied by a surprisingly heavy burden. After five minutes of trying to arrange them somewhere out of the way that didn’t involve touching Azazel, he gave up and tucked one behind the man’s head, the back of his knuckles brushing his nape, just above the collar. The other fit neatly behind it, lost in the sleeve which had slipped down past his fingers again. When it seemed that no attack was imminent, Charles finally started to relax.

So did Azazel, it seemed; a hand slid up beneath the pillow and fit over the curve of Charles’ leg, and then all was still.

Well, Charles thought slowly, this was certainly a new experience for him. Pillow to a teleporting assassin who worked for his burgeoning adversary. If they did make it out of there, would things quickly return to the way they were? While he hadn’t really dealt at all with Azazel in the two years since Erik and he had parted ways, he had often been there in the background; a silent and watchful bodyguard to Erik when he wasn’t quietly killing humans who worked against mutant freedom. Again, at Erik’s behest. What if his old friend one day ordered Azazel to—no. No, Erik wouldn’t harm him. Not yet, at least. He still had his own, twisted form of honour, and believed his debt to Charles was a great one indeed. But it did leave the question hanging there in Charles’ mind, and he had no answer for it. It was likely that yes, life would go on as normal. It just seemed like a terrible shame, and a waste of such a clever, talented creature. But there was nothing to be done. Azazel freely chose his dark path, and to all appearances revelled in it.

Who was he to try and dissuade him? Charles had learned his lesson there, and learned it well.

Some people could not be swayed from their path.

* * *

“Magneto’s wayward bullet left quite a mark on you, Xavier.”

The statement came out of the blue some hours later, as Charles was dozing lightly against the wall. It quickly jerked him back to awareness, alarm blooming beneath his ribs. How could he possibly—ah. Of course. The showers.

“That it did,” Charles replied thickly, rubbing at his eyes. He stifled a yawn and looked down where Azazel had rolled onto his back and was staring up at him intently. “As well you know, Azazel. You were there.”

He nodded. “I was. Why is it you are not dead? Or paralysed?”

This wasn’t a topic Charles was usually at ease discussing, but the honest curiosity in Azazel’s voice loosened something in him and really, what was the recollection of one horrible injury between cellmates?

“I was,” he admitted. “Paralysed, that is. At first. The bullet did graze my spine, and the swelling around it made it impossible to tell if I’d ever walk again. As it turned out, the damage wasn’t as fierce as I’d feared it was. After some months of gruelling rehabilitation I was able to walk again. I was really quite lucky.” Had it hit even a few more millimetres closer to his spinal cord he’d never have recovered. A few more millimetres again and he’d be likely dead.

Azazel looked thoughtful. “Unlucky, I think. Of all places for that bullet to go, it met your spine. But you live yet. I think you are tougher than your weak appearance suggests, Xavier.”

Charles was insulted. “I’ll have you know I am of above-average fitness for a man my age, thank you. I’m afraid we can’t all be bright red specimens of male perfection.” Then Charles did a wonderful imitation of Azazel as all the blood rushed to his face.

“That is—that was not—oh, bugger it.”

Azazel’s entire face lit up with laughter, his teeth very white in his face as he grinned wolfishly up at the embarrassed telepath.

“I am not showering next to you anymore, _tovarisch_. You have made me very uncomfortable.”

“Oh, shut your face,” Charles retorted in a grand display of maturity, his face burning. “And now that you’re awake, you can bloody well get off me so I can stand up and stretch.” Pushing the amused man off his legs Charles staggered to his feet, legs stiff and protesting the movement after a rough four hours of inactivity. Azazel just sat up and lazily finger-combed his hair back to order, but it was a futile effort as the same strands fell forward again into his eyes, leaving him looking irritatingly dashing. Life simply wasn’t fair, Charles thought mournfully.

It was then that down the corridor a terrifyingly sharp _bang_ went off, scaring the life out of Charles as it echoed crazily up to their cell. Gasping, he felt a hand fist in the back of his collar and yank him backwards, away from the unknown source of the sound. Soon a reeking smell filled the air, acrid and smoky. An explosion? The guards came running, yelling and swearing. Two more dashed down the corridor past their cell, but they spared Charles not a glance that he could tell.

“What is this,” Azazel said urgently, low against his ear. “What’s happened?”

Charles waited a few more seconds until he heard it. Yes, there it was; the sound of someone retching. One of the guards had been violently ill the last time, too.

“A collar exploded, my friend,” he replied, profoundly sad. “I think one of our fellow mutants finally reached their breaking point.” They listened for a while longer to the disgusted swearing of their guards, to the sound of one of the other guards sending for clean-up equipment. How hopeless they must have felt, to do something like that. How utterly defeated and without option. Charles then recalled his intention to speak with them in the shower block – something he had been distracted from doing with Azazel’s return. Could he have offered that poor soul the hope of an escape without jeopardising their chances? He’d never know. But he was left with a churning sense of sick guilt all the same, and it continued until long after the commotion down the corridor had faded.

* * *

It was around evening time that his friendly guard did the rounds, checking each cell that was left. Charles was only assuming now that there were all together three mutants remaining, including himself and Azazel. He’d only personally seen two of them, and one was now dead. But the guard took his time inspecting even the empty cells, his limp slightly less pronounced than it had been that morning. Azazel was sitting in his usual dozing position by the door, which now Charles knew to be his attempt to present an obstacle of himself. Charles saw the wicked curl of his mouth as the off-beat footsteps of the guard drew closer, and wondered if the limp had been caused by him at some stage the night before.

“Suppose you heard the commotion earlier, English,” the guard said wearily. “Those damn fools.”

Charles went rigid. “There was more than one? I only heard— I thought it was just one.” The plea in his own voice was pathetic and he knew it, but he hadn’t prepared himself for the possibility. That he and Azazel might be the only two prisoners left now.

“Guess it was a pact or whatever. They ripped at their collars at the same damned time. Made a mess like I ain’t never seen before.” He shook his helmeted head. “Damn shame. We’re screwed now.”

“No new meat to dissect now?” Charles said derisively, his nerves still jangling. “I truly feel your pain.”

“Don’t put this on me,” the guard shot back angrily. “I got bills to pay just like every other guy. You people are a frigging menace and if we gotta cut up a few of you to understand what the fuck is going on, then so be it. You just drew the short straw, English. I don’t got anything against you.”

“Apart from me being a ‘frigging menace’, as you say. Am I particularly menacing to you?” There was an angry coal burning bright in the centre of his chest, and Charles knew he could lose his temper if he wasn’t careful.

“You? No. But him?” The guard pointed straight at Azazel. “Guys like him aren’t gonna win you any points here, English. Not that it even matters anymore, right? The project is fucked. We don’t have enough mutants to make it viable now, and with the kid gone, we can’t even find any new ones. We’re all being terminated.”

Charles suddenly felt extremely cold.

“Why do I get the impression that _termination_ will mean two different things for us?” he asked quietly.

The guard laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound.

“And I didn’t even have to spell it out for you.”

Charles stared at him for a long moment before replying. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded distant even to his own ears.

“So what you’re telling me is that I might as well just pull off my own collar right now?” he asked, lifting his hands partly toward it. “After all, death is going to come just as surely if I don’t. I suppose I would like it to come on my own terms, if I had a choice in the matter.”

The guard recoiled slightly. “No, no Jesus don’t go doing that, I don’t want to see that.” All the strength seemed to be gone from his voice; it wavered terribly and made him sound extremely young. “C’mon, English.”

Charles shrugged. “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t,” he said, his voice purposely bitter. “There’s no escape here. Just a patient wait to be executed. And for what crime? Being born? I hardly think I can be punished for that, guard.”

The guard heaved a ragged breath. “That’s not—I’m not the one punishing you. It’s them. Those quacks in the labs, Stryker’s guys—”

“You’re letting it happen,” Charles said evenly, cutting across his words even as his mind filed away a jolt of shock. _Stryker._ “Even now you’re letting it happen, when you don’t even have anything more to gain from it. You said it yourself; the project has been terminated. You’re out of a job. Now I’m going to die.”

The guard fell silent, seeming to stare at him from the other side of the bars. Charles couldn’t tell what expression he might be wearing behind that yellow mirrored visor. For his part, he just looked calm. Tired, weak and calm. On the other side of the cell, Azazel looked asleep. The guard looked at each of them in turn, and shook his head. Something clanged down the hall, a door opening. Muttered voices floated up to them.

“You just drew the short straw,” he repeated quietly to himself, as though it were some kind of consolation. His gloved hand started fumbling around in his top pocket. “Though in Red Guy’s case here, I’d bet my ass he’s had this coming since a _long_ time ago. Frankly, I reckon you mutants are a goddamned mistake of nature. You might be decent right now, but that’s just till someone pushes you too far. The shit you people can do, it ain’t fair! We’ve gotta defend ourselves!” He pulled something out of his pocket then, and threw it through the bars toward the bed. “So come morning, you’re gonna get a fun dose of cyanide and then it’s lights out. Good riddance I say. It was nice knowing you, English. So long.”

He limped away back down the corridor then, pulling out his baton and obnoxiously rapping it along the bars of the empty cells. The discordant echo stayed in Charles’ ears for a long time as he stood there, waiting patiently until all the guards had left the area.

Finally, all was silent, and Charles turned quite calmly and picked the key up off his bed. It was dull brass, cold, many-toothed and a firm and solid weight in his shaking hand.

It was freedom.

Charles sat down hard on the bed, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching the key in his hand so hard it bit into his palm. He barely noticed when the cot dipped next to him, a hand settling on his shoulder.

“Of the two of us, I think that it is me who is helpless without my powers,” Azazel said thoughtfully. “Very impressive, Professor.”

“He met me halfway,” Charles said numbly. “He didn’t want us dead at all.”

“He did not want _you_ dead. Me, I think he was ambivalent about. Perhaps it was because I stabbed him in the thigh. Who can tell?”

Charles gasped out a laugh, though it sounded closer to a sob than anything. The hand on his shoulder squeezed painfully hard, and Charles was grateful for it.

“Come now, my friend. It’s time we left this place.”

* * *

They waited until after lights out, when the block was empty. The guards were gone as well, which was more a testimony to their impending deaths than anything. There had always been at least one at the other end of the corridor. Now it was as though no one cared enough to make sure their mutant subjects were contained. Whatever the reason, Charles was grateful for it when the echoing clang of the lock tumbling filled the corridor.

When the sliding barred door gave way to open freedom, Charles’ heart was pounding fit to burst.

Azazel just strode straight out into the middle of the corridor, grabbing his wrist on the way and pulling him out of the cell. He slid the door shut behind them.

“Come now. You follow me,” he whispered, and since Charles had no idea where to go there was no argument to be made. It didn’t help that they were in pitch darkness, and their abilities were still limited by the collars. But they were clad in black and made little sound as they crept down the halls, away from the twisting maze of halls and doors that Charles had been down before, on his way to the surgical table. This was heading out, and as it became soon obvious, they were heading _up_. They’d been underground, after all.

Azazel’s stride was suspiciously purposeful, never halting at diverging corridors or stopping to gather his bearings. He simply ploughed on as though he could see clearly in the dark and knew every turn and door to take.

“You know where we are, don’t you?” Charles accused him as they ascended a flight of metal stairs. There were emergency lights in there, and they were reflected in Azazel’s gleaming gaze as he looked at Charles.

“Yes. I came here on a mission,” he replied softly. “Stryker was using a mutant boy to locate others and trap them. I came to stop it.”

Charles didn’t know why he was so shocked. Why would he have assumed Azazel owed him an explanation? Because they shared a cell?

“Well, sterling effort there, Azazel,” he said dryly. His cleverness was interrupted as he tripped slightly on the top step, not paying enough attention to where he was going. The teleporter let out a martyred sigh and looped his tail around Charles’ wrist, leash-like.

“I did stop it,” Azazel explained. “I took the boy back to Magneto. When I came back for information, they were ready for me. I took a dart in the backside and when I didn’t fall immediately they turned me into a pincushion. I think they were somehow scared of me. I did smile reassuringly, but alas.”

“There is nothing reassuring about your smile, Azazel.”

“You wound me _._ ”

They moved through another doorway and into a brightly-lit corridor, this one with windows. Just seeing the darkness of the night sky out there gave Charles an almost painful sense of joy. They were going to get out of there, _finally._

A guard rounded the corner then, wearing no helmet and clearly expecting to see no-one. His expression of terrified surprise was almost comical.

Azazel moved like lightning.

All Charles felt was the loosening of the tail wrapped about his wrist and then he was gone, surging forward like a striking cobra. He ducked one blow, two, moving as though the world was travelling in slow-motion to him. The guard couldn’t even touch him, let alone injure him. The heel of Azazel’s palm connected with the guard’s nose and struck upward, and then Charles was blinking down at the crumpled form of the unfortunate man.

“Quickly, read his mind while I take his weapons,” Azazel ordered. “See if you can find out how to remove the collar.”

Kneeling down quickly, Charles grabbed the unconscious man’s head and pressed their foreheads together, closing his eyes and reaching out with his mind.

Just as quickly, he opened them.

“Azazel—I can’t read the mind of a dead man! You killed him! He’s dead!”

The crimson man had the decency to look chagrined. “My apologies, Xavier. I was too energetic. Let’s find another one.”

Charles shook his head in disbelief. “Hopeless. It’s like letting an excited puppy off its leash.”

Azazel looked aggrieved by that, passing him the guard’s gun while he took the baton for himself. It didn’t make sense that Charles should have the gun, not at first, but then Azazel was very clearly a close-quarters combat specialist. A gun wouldn’t serve him very well. Not that Charles planned on firing it, but Azazel didn’t need to know that.

They moved faster this time, a little more recklessly now that they were armed. Because of this, when they eventually jogged past a guard station they almost missed the man there entirely. Azazel wasted no time striking a multitude of pressure points and did something that made bone crunch alarmingly, but the guard was very much alive by the time he was done. Still unable to summon any righteous indignation at the use of force, Charles pressed his forehead to the guard’s and asserted his mental control over every corner of his mind, descending through layers of thought as he looked for the information he needed.

“Quickly,” Azazel hissed at his side, edgy with adrenaline.

“He hasn’t got anything for us,” Charles replied, frustrated. “These upper level security personnel are just employees of the front for what’s happening underneath. They don’t even know we’re mutants. This place is an off-site arm of the weapons development division for the military—oh, no.” The thought occurred to him just as Azazel nodded grimly.

“They want soldiers. Cannon fodder. But only if we can be controlled.”

“Snap the collar on us when we’re not in use, take it off when we’re needed to serve our country,” Charles murmured, feeling ill. “Stryker set this up?”

“Indirectly. He is channelling funding into the project, but has assured himself plausible deniability should anything go wrong. Officially, no one reports to him.” Azazel’s jaw was tight.

Quickly wiping the memory of the incapacitated man in front of him, Charles lifted his head once more and moved away from the guard station, gesturing for Azazel to follow.

“For now let’s focus on getting out of here. The collars can come later. After we’re clear of this place we can think on what to do about Stryker—”

“ _Drop your weapons! Drop them! Hands in the air!_ ”

The shout was echoed by three men, all armed and pointing guns at the two of them. Four more were running from the other end of the hall, two of them yelling into short-wave radios for backup.

Six on two. Soon to be more.

Charles looked at the gun in his hand. Surrender and go back to the cell? Surrender and go back to die?

He couldn’t do that.

At his side, Azazel tensed a little, but the expression on his face was all wrong. He looked too calm.

Then the baton fell from his fingers and he raised his arms in the air.

“Do as the nice men say, _tovarisch._ ”

Charles flinched. “I— _no_ , I…”

“ _Drop the gun! Drop the gun or I’ll fire! Drop it!_ ”

Charles couldn’t think. He couldn’t _think_ —

The man on his left shifted his aim to Charles’ temple.

He fired.

The gunshot was deafening, painfully filling his hearing for that split second. But he wasn’t dead. However there _was_ a bullet pressing into his temple. Reaching up, under the incredulous gaze of six armed men, Charles touched the hot metal and pulled it away from his skin. There it lay, quite innocently in the palm of his hand.

Everyone stared.

“Didn’t I promise you I could stop a bullet at close range?”

It was the perfect line, spoken at the perfect moment. But the uneven tremor in Erik Lehnsherr’s voice said he wished he hadn’t had to prove it. Not to Charles Xavier.

“Oh,” said Charles, stunned. “Hello, Erik.”

The armed men spun as one to focus on the new intruder, guns raised and ready to fire. None of them discharged a single round. The silence was filled with the sound of the hammer clicking back ineffectually, repeatedly. The guns flew out of their hands and skittered back down the hallway.

No deflected bullets this time, Charles thought absently. So he had learned. His attention was then diverted as the collar around his neck jerked and vibrated.

“Erik, Erik _no_ , it’s rigged to exp—” The collar fell to the ground in pieces. Two thin glass vials of liquid hung in the air, suspended by coiled wire. They flew in two different directions. The same happened with Azazel’s.

Erik’s eyes were very blue beneath his helmet.

“Are you going to tell me they’re just following orders? Tell me they don’t deserve it?”

Charles looked to Azazel, who had gone very still. He stood straight, his face a bland mask before Erik—no, to him, this was Magneto. Great and terrible and deadly. Azazel wouldn’t hesitate to kill them all. Charles had seen him do it and only counted it as overexcitement at the prospect of freedom. The man’s life hadn’t mattered then. But…with his powers back…

“They don’t deserve it,” Charles said evenly. “They’re just reacting to a security breach.”

Erik huffed a humourless breath of laughter. “Oh Charles, you never do change.”

Charles dropped his gun to the ground. “Three floors below ground there are…yes, there are eight people who are directly responsible for the torture, death and abuse of quite a few mutants. Do with them as you please, Erik. They’ll wait for you. They won’t be able to lie if you question them.” He focussed his attention on the six men before him. “Forget our faces and go to sleep, please.”

They fell like dominos.

Azazel smiled. “You are much better than Frost.”

Charles shook his head. “And _I_ keep telling you she’s more capable than she’s leading you to believe.”

Erik approached then, striding past sleeping security personnel to close the distance between them. He fixed Azazel with a long, calculating look before jerking his head toward the direction he’d come from. A dismissal if ever there’d been one.

_You had better not disappear just yet. I think you’re my ride home._

Azazel’s shoulders twitched as he walked away. _Won’t you compel me to do it?_

_Why do I get the impression that you’d very much enjoy that?_

_I think because you are a mind-reader_. _I will be outside._

Charles found himself smiling as he watched Azazel reach the end of the corridor and turn out of sight. However while he’d been doing that, he’d completely missed whatever Erik had been saying. That was…new.

“I’m sorry, I beg your pardon?”

Erik’s expression was absolutely indecipherable. “I said that you look like hell. If I’d known, if—you shouldn’t have gotten caught up in this. For all our differences, I never wanted you to know this side of them.”

“Or you?” Charles shook his head. “I know you came here to kill them all.”

“I came to free one of my men,” Erik said tightly. Then his whole demeanour seemed to crumple. “And then I found you.”

Charles started slightly. “Yes, I should thank you for stopping that bullet. You saved my life.”

Erik gave him an odd look. “I…think I owe you that much, at least.” For some reason Erik seemed unable to find his conversational footing. Was it the shock of finding him? Charles wasn’t sure.

“Oh, yes, right. Well, one out of two isn’t bad,” Charles said, abruptly cheerful. “Thank you for leaving me stranded on that beach with a bleeding hole in my back, by the way. Very sporting of you. But if you don’t mind I’d really like to get out of here and speak to Azazel. Is it this way?”

Erik looked utterly thunderstruck, and it gave Charles no small amount of satisfaction. “I—yes. This way.”

They made it to the exit without any trouble, mostly due to Charles keeping a mental watch on anyone in the area and subtly suggesting they choose another route to get where they needed to go. It wasn’t long before Charles was taking his first breath of fresh air in nearly a month.

The sky was absolutely brilliant with stars. Without a ten foot ceiling over his head he felt like the entire world had gotten larger while he’d been gone, the air warmer, the lights brighter. For a moment Charles just stood there and soaked it all in, savouring his first taste of real freedom. It was glorious.

When he opened his eyes, Erik was beside him. His helmet was tucked under one arm.

“I made a lot of mistakes two years ago,” he said softly. Then he shook his head lightly. “That day. But our fundamental beliefs were too different. We both know we’ll never bend on them. Not for long. But know this, Charles. If you ever have dire need of me, I will be there. No questions. No excuses.” The clear note of sincerity rang through every word he spoke, and it was reflected in the clean and unmuddied line of his thoughts.

Erik meant it, every word of it, and even the bitter little kernel of anger he’d harboured since Cuba couldn’t hold up under that kind of earnest promise.

Charles smiled. “Thank you, my friend. It’s reassuring to know.”

Erik smiled back, a rare thing indeed. But it too quickly faded as he turned back to the compound, and lifted his helmet back into place. His eyes were flinty with rage, his expression cold. Charles had seen that expression before, and despaired of it. But he couldn’t lift a hand against him this time. He was tired and there was a ragged gash in his chest where things like mercy and pity had resided for humans like these. He could fight again another day. For the moment, he just needed to find Azazel.

“Goodbye, Erik.” Charles said quietly as the man strode back in through the front doors, metal groaning as the doors sealed themselves shut behind him. He sighed.

“I would join him, but killing isn’t the same without my knives,” Azazel said from behind him. Charles turned around in surprise, finding a familiar tall shape standing beneath the largest tree, just by the front fence. “So it would just put me in a bad mood. Also, my tail hurts.”

“Well aren’t you just full of complaints,” Charles commented as he approached the other man. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have been using your tail to keep hold of me earlier then? You’ll rip those stitches, and then what?”

Azazel shrugged. “Then we’ll have matching scars.”

Charles blinked in surprise, then tipped his head back to regard the other man. “I suppose we would, at that,” he mused. “You know, it’s going to be quite odd not waking up to your face every morning.”

Azazel barked a short laugh. “Be careful, Xavier.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter. I meant that, well, it’s quite likely that I shall—that I have become accustomed to your presence and it will be strange to not have you around anymore.”

“And I will be very bored.”

“Oh, touching.” But Charles was smiling, and so was Azazel, and that was all right.

“Xavier Mansion in Westchester, New York. Do you think you can find it?” He held out his hand to the teleporter, who took it between both of his own.

“It will be good to teleport again. We can keep trying until I do.” Azazel replied. His wicked smile deepened. “After all, you owe me dinner every night for a year, don’t you, _tovarisch_?”

_Oh._

“Yes, I suppose I did say that, didn’t I? So much for never seeing you again,” Charles said thoughtfully.

“I am not so easily gotten rid of, Xavier.”

Charles found himself smiling at that. “Well, we’re a little late for dinner tonight, I think. Do you have any objections to getting incredibly drunk and sleeping for ten hours straight?”

Azazel’s eyes glazed. Then he looked pained. “Magneto will need transport home—”

“Yes he will, won’t he?” Charles replied breezily. He raised two fingers to his temple. “Too bad you have the night off.”

“I do have the night off. Let’s go, _tovarisch._ ”

They vanished into the night, a thin haze of red vapour the only evidence they’d been there at all.

Charles assumed Erik would forgive him for stealing his ride.

Probably.


End file.
